Rust and Reclaimed

The iron spine of the factory bends, Yielding to the soft persistence of moss. Where furnaces once roared their defiance, Now only the wind exhales through shattered glass.

Concrete foundations crack and splinter, Pried apart by the delicate roots of saplings That have never known the soot-stained sky. They drink from puddles of forgotten oil, Transforming poison into pale green life.

A rusted wheel rests in the tall grass, Its revolutions stopped by the heavy hand of years. The earth does not mourn the makers, It simply folds their monuments Into its slow, unending embrace.